


sparkling

by glitterjemstone



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barricade Day, Declarations Of Love, Enjolras being Enjolras, First Kiss, Getting Together, Grantaire being Grantaire, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, No worries, Pining, Sober Grantaire, balconies, only small mentions though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterjemstone/pseuds/glitterjemstone
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire have their moment on a balcony after Enjolras says something wrong.





	sparkling

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Barricade Day! Or not, because they all died on this day. Either way, here is my barricade day contribution. Kudos and comments are appreciated.

Grantaire wants to take his hand and smooth out the furrow between Enjolras’s eyebrows, even if just so he can trace his brow bone with his fingertips. He’s standing there, yelling, at him, and all Grantaire can think about is touching him in the most innocent fashion. He looks so beautiful like that, blue eyes ablaze, hands flying wildly about, all because he’s angry at Grantaire, and for what? For being his normal, cynical self? He’s spent too much time just admiring the way Enjolras looks that he doesn’t even hear everything being said, only catching the tail end of it as he snaps out of his reverie.

“How can you possibly agree with Geertz? The differences between us, between all humans, are not something that we are innately drawn too! Of course, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging those differences, but they only create cleavages if we make it that way,” Enjolras sputters. “It’s— it isn’t even provable! We can _see_ when we present ourselves differently depending on how we need to! But you can’t possibly see that people sticking together with people who have similar experiences, whether it be ethnically or religiously or _what_ , is natural, and not just because of the oppression certain privileged groups project upon other groups!”

“You can’t prove that that’s not _not_ the reason,” Grantaire shoots back, because it’s all he can think up in a matter of seconds.

“I can certainly make a good argument!” Enjolras looks indignant.

“So can I.”

“Working together is _key_ in creating a true democracy; we can’t just throw up our hands and assume the universe wants us divided! We create those divides, and we, too, can tear them down.” Enjolras shakes his head and sits back down, but not without a spare glare at Grantaire’s table. Grantaire knows this is the part where he makes his counter-argument, but he can’t bring himself to anger Enjolras anymore than he has today. They must have some good days, after all, so why not today?

“Whatever you say, Apollo.”

The nickname brings Enjolras’s head back up, just as he was preparing to push Grantaire out of his mind and get back to wrapping up the Les Amis meeting. His eyes slowly narrow, and god, why did Grantaire have to speak? He could have just stayed silent and let the argument be over for today. He sighs, and lifts his bottle (sadly, non-alcoholic, especially on today, of all days, when Enjolras was leading the meeting) to his lips, but before he can take a drink, Enjolras speaks.

“Why?”

Like a testament to how easily Enjolras can capture hundreds of people with his words, that one brings the room silent. Combeferre stares at his best friend, Joly stops whispering into Bossuet’s ear, Jehan stops tapping his fingernails against the table. Everything stops with one, seething word.  

Grantaire stares at Enjolras, lost. “Use your words, Apollo.”

“Why do you even come to these meetings?” He pauses, but no one interrupts. “All you do is challenge me, and you don’t even mean it. You argue just to make me angry. There’s no purpose in that, no meaning. So why do you even come in the first place? It’s pointless.”

Right, because Grantaire definitely needed the reminder that he was pointless. Pointless to the group, pointless to the world. _Right._

Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire can see Jehan extending his arm to rest on Grantaire’s knee. Courfeyrac starts to whisper something only ‘Ferre and Enjolras can hear, but is silenced by a swift look from their leader. Enjolras keeps looking at him, and for a second Grantaire wonders if either of them will ever speak, or if they could last an eternity like this, just waiting for the right moment.

It doesn’t last eternity, though, and Grantaire says something before he grabs his jacket and leaves the Musain.

“Anyone ever tell you that if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say it at all?”

He hears the room erupt in chatter, but he prays no one will think to come after him, and just keeps walking.

So much for good days between them.

**

 _Jehan xoxo (10:54 pm):_ how are you doing love?

 _grand r (10:55 pm):_ fine. nothing new.

 _Jehan xoxo (10:55 pm):_ want me to come over? we can watch some tv and cuddle!!

Grantaire debates even responding to the text at all. On one hand, he doesn’t want Jehan to see him mopey and sad, and have him come all the way to his apartment just to comfort him. But on the other hand, Jehan might be the only one of the group who can really help him. And Jehan has already seen him at his lowest, so he can’t do too much damage on his friend.

 _grand r (10:58 pm):_ sure. i’ll make popcorn.

He does make popcorn. He also fills up two glasses with soda, and dumps a bottle of wine he’s had hidden in a drawer down the sink, so he won’t be tempted (who is he kidding; he’ll be tempted, but he’ll have to leave the house to act on it).

Jehan arrives ten minutes later, arms carrying a small ton of blankets, stacked so high you can’t see Jehan’s ginger bun sticking up at the top.

“Jesus, how did you even make it here with those?” Grantaire smiles weakly.

“Not Jesus, just me. And it’s not so bad, I know the walk here like the back of my hand," Jehan chirps, and promptly stumbles over to the couch and dumps his collection. He’s wearing a ridiculous Christmas-looking sweater with skulls on it, which looks like something Feuilly might have knit. “Are you ready for a _slumber party_?”

“Party? Not so much.” He sees the second Jehan’s face falls and quickly attempts to rectify it. “But I am ready to spend time with you?”

It sounds more like a question, which Jehan seems to ignore. He grabs Grantaire’s hands and drags him into the blanket pile, not giving him much of a choice as he curls ups beside him, already grabbing blankets at random and draping them over the two.  

Jehan asks no questions as he opens his laptop and finds a good show online. No questions as it plays. They watch a few episodes, Grantaire’s legs tucked beside him and Jehan lying on his chest.

This is what he loves about Jehan, among the many other things. He never asks questions, just comforts. There is something endlessly comforting about his presence. Jehan allows him to sit with his sadness, sometimes for days if he deems it necessary, before speaking to him about it. Jehan is here now though, which means Jehan probably doesn’t think he needs to wallow for that long, and will expect him talk about it at some point or another in the next few hours.

In the meantime, they sit like this for several episodes, with sometimes a giggle from Jehan or a side comment from himself. He doesn’t want to check the time, but he’s sure it’s pushing three in the morning when he decides it’s time to talk.

“I just love him so much sometimes, you know? Can’t stand the idea of being useless to him. And then he goes and says these things, and I wonder if any of this is worth it,” he blurts, softly glancing down to look at Jehan.

“Oh, honey, you’re not useless to him. You always volunteer to make posters and banners and programs. And just because you think you’re useless to him, doesn’t mean you’re useless to us, c’mon. Who else knows how to make Combeferre crack at a joke, or Éponine to calm down from a panic attack, huh? You always draw fantastic things for us and come to all our events. You’ve never missed one of my poetry readings, and I _know_ they’re bad. You come because you want to support us, which is more than Enjolras can say. You could never be useless, R.” Jehan looks at him with such conviction that he believes the words himself. He can believe in the mysteriously good friend Jehan describes, even if he doesn’t feel that way.

Jehan slowly shifts them so that he is now sitting up and Grantaire’s head is on his lap. He takes Grantaire’s inky hair in his hand and begins to tug on them as he twines them. Grantaire nuzzles into Jehan’s affectionate hair braiding.

They sit silent for a minute before Jehan speaks again.

“Blindly following something, or someone, can’t be called love,” Jehan whispers, like he’s telling Grantaire a secret.

“I don’t blindly follow him,” he responds.

“You would follow him anywhere.”

“So would any of you.”

“Because we believe in the cause. You just believe in him.” And doesn’t _that_ hit him in the stomach. Jehan is still whispering, but he feels like Jehan has just yelled at him for some reason. Because he was really trying to ignore that idea for a while.

“Maybe. But he’s a good cause,” he concedes.

“R, he’s not a cause at all. He’s a person. He’s a thoughtless person, and he shouldn’t have said that tonight,” Jehan says. There’s no question about it, in Jehan’s voice, but Grantaire has the urge to defend Enjolras that he can’t explain.

“But can you blame him? I mean, really, Jehan, the man is _baroque_. He is every grand gesture in the universe.” Grantaire gazes up at Jehan. He knows how he looks. Jehan had told him once, _like he had stars in his eyes_. Grantaire had scoffed, but hadn’t denied it.

“But he hates the Catholic Church.”

“ _Characterized by grandeur action and motion_ ,” he cites.

“You can’t keep thinking like this.” Jehan sighs. “He’s not Apollo, he’s not Achilles. He’s just Enjolras. Talk to him, why don’t you? I’m sure he’ll want to apologize, once he’s actually thought through what he said.”

“Doubt it.”

“He will, I promise. He knows when he’s made a mistake.”

Grantaire says nothing more, and Jehan doesn’t continue the conversation. Eventually, they fall asleep on his couch in the nest of blankets.

**

Honestly, why did his friends insist on celebrating everything? He’s not complaining, but it feels like every other weekend he is at someone’s apartment, with lights dimmed and alcohol in every corner. So maybe _usually_ he doesn’t complain, because he never complains about free alcohol. But this weekend is different. He’s not _allowed_ any of the free alcohol so maybe this weekend he _is_ complaining. He does get something to drink, but after about an hour of hanging around his tipsy friends (Joly and Musichetta retreated into a bedroom a few minutes ago with Bossuet eagerly following, Jehan is slowly dancing on a table with Bahorel, Combeferre is balancing a small stack of books on his head impressively) he takes his leave and slips out onto the small balcony in Marius’s apartment.

The balcony is small, fit for two people at the most, but he can’t imagine Marius and Cosette complaining. Besides, it serves its purpose. He is able to lean against the cool metal railing and breathe in fresh air. He is able to stand here alone with the city in front of him, open and free and uncaring about his mediocre life.

When the door creeks open quietly, he doesn’t even need to look to know who it is.

“Hey,” Enjolras says. He sounds tentative about speaking at all.

“Hey,” he replies. Maybe if he acts bored enough, Enjolras will leave him alone. He keeps his gaze purposefully forward.

“I… I was told that I should apologize,” Enjolras says, leaning against the railing, only inches from him. Grantaire can think of some complaints about this balcony now. He is so close to Enjolras that it almost hurts to not be looking at him. Somehow, he manages to keep his pathetic feelings reigned in.

“Let me guess, Combeferre?” He smiles dryly, thinking about Combeferre scolding Enjolras when they got home.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras corrects him. “And I agree with him. I’m… I’m really sorry if I hurt you.”

“You all but said I was pointless, Apollo. That… does kind of fucking hurt,” Grantaire says.

“No!” Enjolras automatically switches into the defensive. Grantaire isn’t sure he even knows when he does it. “You misunderstood me. I would never say something like that to anyone. To you.” There’s a pause. “You always misunderstand what I say. You always take it the wrong way. Sometimes I think you do it on purpose.”

There’s more silence, like neither of them know what to say next. The chilly night air makes Grantaire shiver. He looks down at his drink, rum and coke without the rum, a cruel act of kindness from Joly, and puts it on the stone ground of the balcony. He's almost afraid he'll drop it, or throw it, if he keeps clutching it. He then looks back up at the cityscape in front of him. The city lights twinkle, and in his mind his can see all the people in this city living their lives, all with different problems and people in them, and then he glances at Enjolras’s blond hair gently moving with the wind, eyes looking solidly at him. He’s wearing just a black shirt, no jacket, and it’s a stark contrast to everything else about him. Enjolras is light. Enjolras will always be a part of his life, whether he likes it or not.

Grantaire opens his mouth to respond, but before he can get more than a single syllable out he’s cut off.

“No, wait. I’m sorry. What I just said is… it’s complete bullshit.” Swearing isn’t something Enjolras does often, which is how Grantaire knows he cares too much about what he’s saying to censor himself. “You did misunderstand me, but I also did… say that. I say a lot of things to you that you don’t deserve, things that aren’t true.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Grantaire says with a forced indifference. Enjolras bites his lip harshly.

“But I _do_ worry about it. I— I can be so selfish and _thoughtless_ sometimes that it astonishes me. I don’t like myself when I say awful things to you— things that, in the moment, I feel so okay with saying. The things I’ve said to you, and never apologized for, are _disgusting._  Saying your presence at our meetings is pointless doesn’t even cover the worst of what I’ve said to you. You don’t deserve that! You— you’re so _amazing_ and talented and intelligent and you always know what I’m talking about even though you take none of the classes I do. I mean, how do you do that? You just… you make me so upset sometimes and I have no idea why. “

Enjolras is staring at him with a look in his eyes that Grantaire has never seen before. He knows what Enjolras looks like angry, what he looks like passionate, sad, happy, ecstatic, but none of those looks is this. This look is sparkling.

He imagines the way he looks at Enjolras to be similar: sparkling. Like he never wants to turn away. Like Enjolras is giving him the moon even when he’s just yelling at him.

He also thinks he is much too sober to be thinking thoughts like that. He tries to remember why he decided to stop drinking alcohol all the time, but the reason escapes him.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says, softly, still gazing at him. Oh, right, his reason is standing right in front of him. He almost wants to confess his feelings, just to have them be out in the open, just so he doesn’t have to feel them fester inside his chest anymore.

“The world doesn’t deserve you,” he smiles breathlessly. Enjolras is still looking at him like that. Grantaire thinks it should itch at his skin, but instead he feels calm.

“I don’t deserve you,” Enjolras responds. Grantaire almost stumbles over the balcony railing at that.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I’m not. I mean that. I’ve proven time and time again that I’m an awful friend, barely a friend at all, and you are still so… _you_ . Kind, and forgiving. I’m not sure you know how good of a person you are, but I do. I think about it, you, all the time, and you’re still so wonderful. I don’t know what grand thing I’ve done right for you to believe in me like you do. For you to _care about me_ like you do,” Enjolras says. Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. He gets the feeling that while Enjolras’s words seem so sure of themselves, Enjolras is taking a chance by saying these things. That he’s nervous, which isn’t something anyone normally associates with Enjolras.

“I don’t know, either,” he mumbles. If it was someone else out here with him, they’d point out the fact that he’s blushing, but hopefully Enjolras can’t tell, though he doubts it.

“I’m lucky to know you.” Enjolras sounds as sure as Grantaire has ever heard him. And he listens a lot. Enjolras moves ever so slightly closer so that their arms are touching, from elbow to shoulder, though Enjolras’s shoulder is inches below his. Their forearms hold their weight against the railing. Then, as a final surprising act, Enjolras leans his head against the part of Grantaire’s arm that isn’t touching his. It’s an awkward, fumbling motion, and Grantaire would find it endearing if he didn’t find it so bewildering.

“What are you doing, Apollo?” Grantaire asks, eyes wide as he glances down to where Enjolras’s blond mop of hair is pressed against his shoulder.

“I also think about this a lot. Just being close to you,” Enjolras says, seemingly unfazed by the events unfolding. “When I told him, Jehan suggested it might be because I’m ‘into’ you.”

Grantaire laughs out loud. “Apollo, you’re not ‘into’ anyone, much less me.” He shifts his stance in anxiousness.

“Why _not_? It makes sense, given how I lash out at you and I don’t know why, and how I see you, and— and how I feel about you. Me having… romantic feelings for you makes sense.” He can feel Enjolras getting upset.

“Okay, sorry, sorry. But you having feelings for me? It might make sense to you, but it certainly doesn’t to me.” Grantaire runs his fingers through his hair, using the arm Enjolras had been leaning on, pulling when he gets to the end.

“You don’t have to return— my feelings, or anything! I just thought you should know,” Enjolras says. Grantaire wants to scream. How can Enjolras not know he is completely and utterly in love with him? How can he think that might be the issue here?

“No, no, you don’t understand. Jehan, he just said that because he knows how I feel about you. He, he thought he was doing something good, but he wasn’t, okay? You— you don’t know what you’re talking about. People don’t have feelings for me, least of all you. It just doesn’t happen,” Grantaire says, hands falling uselessly at his side. Enjolras looks disappointed at the loss of contact, but Grantaire can’t really imagine why. It’s all some giant joke, Enjolras doesn’t really like him. He _can’t._ It’s like Enjolras has suddenly forgotten everything about him: his cynical attitude, the days he can’t get out of bed, the way his hands are shaking and he is so close to _bolting_ back inside and downing an entire bottle of _something,_ because being sober right now isn’t working out. He can’t be sober and tell Enjolras to _stop_ having romantic feelings for him.

“It just doesn’t happen? It’s happening right now.” Enjolras’s arms flail as his voice rises. “And _—_ what do you mean, _how you feel about me_?”

Grantaire stares at him. They’re standing on opposite sides of the balcony now, which is still only maybe a foot apart, not far enough, and Enjolras looks more like a god than he ever has before. He looks righteous, he looks alive, and all Grantaire can think about is how they’re ever going to go back to normal once Enjolras comes to his senses. They won’t. Grantaire is never going to be able to look at Enjolras again without remembering this night.

“You have to know, Apollo. You asked how I always know what you’re talking about, even though I’m in none of your classes? It’s because I’m interested in _you_. I care about _you,_ and so I care about what you talk about,” Grantaire drawls. He could almost be drunk, by how much this night feels like a dream.

Silence is an uncommon thing between them, but ever since Grantaire stopped drinking, it’s been happening more and more often. When he’s drunk he never has any qualms about challenging Enjolras. Now that he’s sober _all the time_ , he doesn’t have that same confidence. Now he has to become okay with things being like this.

“How long?” Enjolras asks quietly, eyes softening  and hands relaxing visibly as he does.

“Christ, I don’t know, Enjolras, a year? More than a year? However long I’ve known you.” He doesn’t know why he lies right then. He knows he’s loved Enjolras since the moment he first saw him in a campus café. He knows it’s been a year and a half since that day, and only slightly over a year since he actually met Enjolras.

“I saw you, in freshman year. In some coffee place,” Enjolras tells him. “I spilled my coffee when I saw you.”

“How do you even remember that?” he asks.

“I spilled my coffee _because_ I saw you,” Enjolras responds. “That’s, I think, when I started liking you.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. His heart is pounding. He wants to kiss Enjolras. “Did Jehan tell you that?”

“No. But he did tell me that spilling coffee because you think someone is attractive usually doesn’t mean you hate the person.”

“You’re unbelieveable.”

“Well, believe it. I’m not asking too much, am I?” Enjolras says. Grantaire rolls his eyes, but smiles sloppily anyways.

“No, Apollo, you’re not asking too much at all.” He takes a step forward, enough that the foot between them is nearly closed. Enjolras moves forward too, grabbing his hands with his own and shifting on the balls of his feet.

“Does that mean I can also ask to kiss you?”

Grantaire’s eyes flicker to his lips. “Yes.”

“Grantaire, can I kiss you?”

He doesn't even answer, just crushes his lips against Enjolras’s with a sudden movement. In hindsight, he might have been too rough, because Enjolras jolts back, though he doesn't break the kiss. His hands do let go of Grantaire’s and move to his neck, grasping at his jaw and trying to bring him closer than he already is. Grantaire is grabbing at his waist, digging his fingers into the skin at Enjolras’s hips.

Enjolras’s lips are so much warmer than Grantaire has imagined. Maybe it’s because the air is so cold that he’s shocked by the warmth, but he can’t get enough of the feeling. He also never imagined Enjolras would be as good at kissing as he is, but he moves with a grace that tells Grantaire this is nowhere near the first time he’s done this, and something inside him coils at that thought.

Time passes slowly, or maybe it passes quickly. By the time Enjolras pulls back, Grantaire feels like it’s over too soon, but Enjolras is out of breath so clearly it’s not been mere seconds. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire mutters, breathing heavily.

“I like when you say my name.” Enjolras smiles widely, staring at him adoringly.

“Enjolras,” he repeats.

“What?”

“Do you think we should go back inside?” he asks. Music is still pounding from inside, so he’s not sure anyone has even notice their disappearance, but he wants to get back before someone does, and looks outside to try and find him.

“No.” His eyes shine with the reflection of the city. “I want to stay out here with you.” Enjolras slides down so that he’s sitting on the ground, back pressing up against the railings. His hair hangs off the balcony as he leans his head back. Grantaire slides down next to him, their legs side by side. Enjolras opens his hand, and Grantaire gets the cue to take it in his. He likes the way his hands look against Enjolras’s, the distinction clear: Enjolras’s hands are slim and pale where his are darker, with paint stains on the palms and chipped polish on his nails from Cosette.

“It’s freezing out and you don’t have a jacket,” he points out. Enjolras shakes his head.

“I don’t care.”

Grantaire smiles and slouches down slightly so he can lay his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. “So tell me, what are your thoughts on Putnam’s ideas about democracy?”

“Oh, Putnam doesn't know what he's talking about. It's Berman who knows how democracy works.” And just like that, Enjolras is off, leaving reality behind to spout idealistic prose.

The city is behind them, so they're looking at the balcony door, the window covered by a curtain, but anyone who pulled it back would see them. Enjolras speaks while Grantaire lets his eyelids droop, enjoying when Enjolras’s grip tightens on his hand to make sure he's not fallen asleep. He squeezes back.

Above them, the stars sparkle.

**Author's Note:**

> References made in this fic:
> 
> Geertz: this is in reference to primordialism, one conception of ethnicity (the other being instrumentalism, from Bates). Geertz is the one who originally wrote about primordialism.  
> Putnam: in reference to Robert Putnam's book "Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy" which more argues for the emphasis on political culture in the creation of a democracy.  
> Berman: in reference to what is most important in the creation of a democracy, he posed that both political culture and political institutions should be emphasized in democracy. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr at otherworldlyghost!


End file.
